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minutes, I stuck my hand out, forgetting that my phone was not in its usual place next to my bed. The green numbers on my clock took forever to change.
    The night lasted a lifetime.
    Next morning, I dragged myself down to breakfast. I shoveled six spoonfuls of sugar onto my cereal. Mom watched me without saying a word. I ignored the phony bright conversation that Dad had going with Emerson.
    She ignored me.
    I had just got up from the table when Mom said, “You can go over and pick up your phone after school. But can I trust you not to use it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Put it in Dad’s desk. You can use the landline to let Selena and Josie know that your phone privileges are suspended. Email too.” Then, as an afterthought, she added, “And anyone else who needs to know.”
    Phone. And email! “But even if I can’t use my cell, I can still use the landline, right? And the desktop computer?”
    â€œWeren’t you listening last night?” Mom asked. “For homework only. Not socializing. Do I need to go over it all again?”
    I stomped upstairs. I locked myself in the bathroom and scrubbed my teeth so hard, I thought my gums would bleed. I swabbed my face with the towel, slapped on some makeup and headed out of the house without saying goodbye.
    At school, when I saw Cleo coming my way, I ducked into the music room.
    In math, the teacher kept telling me to stop flicking my pen against the desk. In Spanish, my hand kept straying to my pocket, then coming up empty. I was glad when lunch break finally arrived.
    Cleo caught up with me in the cafeteria. “We still on for tonight?”
    â€œTonight what?”
    â€œI was going to hang out with you. And Emmy and Cade…” She peered at me. “What’s up?”
    I looked into the distance, trying to blink away tears.
    â€œYou okay?” Cleo asked.
    I blew my nose. “It’s nothing. Must be my allergies.”
    â€œAllergies?”
    I squeezed the damp tissue in my fist. “Not really.”
    â€œLet’s go in here.” Cleo hauled me into the washroom. She pulled me into the handicapped stall. “Tell me everything.”
    â€œMom and Dad confiscated my phone,” I told her. “For a whole month.”
    â€œI thought it was something serious. Brain cancer. One of your parents fired. Something really serious.”
    â€œIt is serious.”
    â€œWell, okay. I can see it, I guess. But I thought you weren’t talking to your best buddies since the bust-up about the spring-break trip.”
    â€œWe made up, actually. If you must know.” I glared at her.
    â€œSo why have you lost your phone privileges?”
    â€œDad says I’m addicted.”
    Cleo nodded. “He’s been reading about it too, eh?”
    Of course! It was Cleo who had thrown around the word addiction . As if I was a junkie. Or gambled away my allowance.
    â€œSo that’s all?” she asked. “You’re crying because you can’t use your phone for a while?” She slid down the wall until she was sitting on her bag. She leaped up again when someone banged on the door. “What?” she yelled. “We’re busy in here.”
    â€œDo you mind?” a voice called from the other side.
    â€œWho’s that?” she hissed. “A teacher?”
    â€œIt’s Whitney Houlden.” I opened the door, and we left the stall to let Whitney ease her wheelchair in.
    â€œLet’s go to Timmy’s for a coffee,” said Cleo.
    â€œIt’s not just because Dad says I’m addicted,” I told her as I followed her outside. “Or dependent or whatever.”
    â€œWhat then?”
    We dashed across the street and headed for the coffee shop. “Caden hurt himself yesterday,” I said.
    â€œHe okay?” Cleo pulled a handful of coins from her pocket.
    â€œHe had to have twenty-one stitches.”
    â€œTwenty-one!”